Life Sim

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Mornin' beautiful. Well done on waking up again today. Do you know how many people woke up dead? Neither do I but I bet it's loads. Creak those crusty peepers open, and slither your way out of bed. [[Get up]] [[No, not yet.]]

Hup you get then, time to get a shift on. Swing those sausages out of bed and let's get started. You hear a sound like a marble dropping into a toilet bowl. Don't worry about that. It's just that you chose the more boring pathway, but don't dwell on that too much. Unadventurous types tolerated, if not genuinely welcome. It's a bright monday morning, and you're off to be a productive member of society. [[Get ready and leave for work]]

I agree. What's the point of taking in reality at *this* point in your life? Just lie still and enjoy the darkness. Remember that time you were doing a talk at the front of the class and you coughed and farted at the same time and the fart came out in time with the coughs? Prrt Prrt Prrt. [[Lie still->OK. I won't.]] [[Dream time]]

Just float around in your brain pan, then. You'll have heard that your brain is actually the texture of soft butter? You could plunge your fist right in the centre and fish about in all the memories and personality you've got in there. Mush it all around on the inside of your skull like you're spreading it on toast. What do you reckon you'd fish out of there first? Imagine getting in there and squashing a thing or two. You could make some big changes happen around here, with none of that annoying *working on yourself*. Hypothetically, what would you choose to change? [[Personality]] [[Memories->Personality]]

I mean... you could do it. You could just... Do you want to? *Could* you? Physically? There's really only one way to know. Pop the lid. Let's have a look. [[Unhinge the top of your skull]] [[I... I don't think I want to do this]]

Feel around the sides of your head, find the little indents in your temples. Give them a little press. It might be a paperclip job, like opening the sim card slot on a phone, you know? I've never done this before, and neither, I suspect, has anyone else. <<timed 4s>> <span class="fade-in">A little bit harder. Give it a little wiggle, I don't know.</span> <</timed>> <<timed 8s>> <span class="fade-in">I dunno, I think this'll work, but there'll be a knack to it. Dig those fingers in.</span> <</timed>> <<timed 14s>> <span class="fade-in"> [[Please stop->I... I don't think I want to do this]] [[Give it a real push]] </span> <</timed>>

Yeah, of course. It's just a fun thing to think about doing. You wouldn't *really* pop open your skull and take out all your personality flaws making you into some sort of perfect superman. That would be absurd. No one would want that. Pull the covers over your head, all safe.

Your fingers plunge into the sides of your skull. I don't think you should have pressed quite that hard, but it did the trick. The top of your head hinges neatly open with a quiet little automatic door sound; the tiny pshht of a mouse fart. It doesn't hurt, strangely. The thing is, the functionality has always been there, but no one's thought to *really* try. Well done you. You were always one to push boundaries. Don't get any of that brain water on the bed, it'll never come out. You can't see from your perspective, but I can see the open edges of your skull are lined in gold, which is a nice touch. You picked that out yourself before you were born as one of the Chosen Children. For most people it's the standard pink gunk, or just the raw bone edge, not that anyone's found out before, but you were given incredible powers by an unknowable being, so that's nice for you. The problem is you weren't actually conscious yet so you have no idea that you have them. The unknowable being had a lot to learn about human development and didn't think to leave a note or let your parents know. Funny, though. Anyway, do you want to have a feel around in your brain? [[Let's do this]]

Alrighty, let's enter some uncharted territory. Keep steady, and push your fingers into that smooth, buttery brain. It'll either work out well for you, or you'll die immediately, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. You're sitting upright in bed, leaning against the headboard with your skull open like a toilet seat. Might as well see this through, eh? Here, imagine someone looking in through your window and seeing this? They'd be like, "ha ha, that's mental" wouldn't they? It feels a lot bigger on the inside, your skull. Your hand fishes around in there and you can't even feel the sides. It feels strangely normal to be doing this, like it's some kinda destiny business. Which bit of your personality do you want to have a look at? [[Flaws]] [[Strengths]]

Feel around for something hard and spherical, like a hot little marble, grab it and hang on to the slippery little bugger. Got something? When someone is excited to tell you a fact they find interesting, that orb represents your insistence on telling them you already know. That's your "yeah, obviously" orb. It's connected to the nerve than controls eye rolls, and as you tug on it, your eyes involuntarily jerk up to the ceiling, giving the impression of someone who finds brainfishing just so tedious. What do you reckon? [[Squish it]] [[I'll keep that, people need to know I'm a genius]]

Nice ego on you, eh? "Mmm yes, let's examine all my many strengths, papa!" You wanna deflate that a bit while you're in here? Let's take a look, then. Fish your hand about in there, try and find a little cube. A little cube. Like dice, or a sugar cube. Got one? Keep looking. [[Got it.]] [[There's nothing.]]

You remember an instance of sitting in the garden with your six year old niece, looking at a rainbow stretching all the way across the sky. You can see both ends, and it's incredibly vivid and clear. "Rainbows are made when the sun sh-," your niece starts to say, her eyes fixed on the rainbow. "Yeah, OBVIOUSLY," you say. "I learned about rainbows when I was like three. Everyone knows about rainbows. What do they teach in schools these days?" You roll your eyes. You cringe yourself into a tiny ball, and, hand-in-brain maintained, give your now-adult niece a call with your free hand. "Sorry for the rainbow thing," you tell her when she answers. "What?" she replies. "The thing where I told you I knew how rainbows worked when I was three." "What are you talking about?" "You were like "oh I know how rainbows are made" and I was like "yeah everyone knows how rainbows are made" but you were like six and I was trying to assert my intellectual dominance over a child, but the truth is I don't know how rainbows are made to this day, so I was really covering up my own ignorance. No one ever taught me how rainbows were made, but you were so smug about it. I mean really an arsehole. There was no need for you to rub it in my face like that and thinking about it, it's you who should apologise to *me*." A couple of seconds of silence pass. "I mean, six is old enough to have a bit of tact and decorum," you continue. "Things were never just handed to me on a plate like they were for you with your rainbow education. You know how hard it is to hide a thing like that your whole life? Every time people point out a rainbow, and it happens A LOT I'll have you know, you have to change the subject or pretend to go on your phone or something. It's been a lifetime of mental trauma really, all catalysed by YOUR insolent behaviour." Silence. "It's your uncle, by the way. How are you?" "Yeah, fine." "Alright, well I think that clears everything up. Take care." You hang up, satisfied.

If you insist. You let go of the orb and it snaps back into place on the eye roll nerve. Your eyes bounce about a bit like fruit machine reels and then settle down. Reach your hand down to where your neck starts, you should feel a little metal switch, one of those old fashioned ones with a little ball on the end. Flip it. You're right, everyone *does* deserve to know your genius, and this will let them. [[Flip]] [[Nah, I changed my mind->Squish it]]

Oh. Well that's sad. I suppose we're going to have to look for the low self esteem orb instead. Fish about for a little hot marble. Yeah, OK, just bring the whole fistful up to the surface, sad sack. You can crush them all if you want. I wouldn't recommend it personally, it's always good to be humble. It's your brain though of course, so do what you want. If it goes terribly, that's on you. [[Get em smashed.]] [[Smash all but one.]]

That's the cube representing your openness to new experiences. You just levered open your own skull and you're not even out of bed yet. Pretty open. Literally. You can add to this, or expand it. What do you reckon? [[Add a complete lack of fear]] [[Expand to include out of body experiences]]

You crush all the little low self esteem marbles in your fist, releasing the smell of failure into the air and away. You pull your hand out of your brain and wipe it clean on your pillowcase before snapping your skull closed again. OK superstar, what's next? [[I don't need you, I'll make my own fate.]] [[I'm going to be a world famous actor.]] [[I'm going to be a world famous musician.]]

You examine the low self esteem marbles in your hand. They're all different colours, but they're all pond sludge shades of yellowy green and brown, and they smell like a public bin on a hot day. You pick out one with some sickly yellow streaks on it and toss that one back into your brainpan. The others you crush into slime and wipe them off on your thighs. Snapping your skull closed, you wait to see how you feel. Pretty damn good, it turns out. You're filled with a new confidence in yourself, and you stand in front of the mirror looking yourself up and down like you're an adonis. Here, remember those leather trousers you bought but never dared to wear? Those things are sounding good right now aren't they? You dig them out of the storage box under your bed and start dragging them up your legs, the blubber of your thighs forming a rubber ring effect at the top. You do a few lunges and find they have absolutely no give whatsoever. You feel like you've stuffed your legs into a couple of lengths of copper pipe. Perfect. Just so happens you're meeting some friends today for lunchtime drinks. Your arse is a veritable pond and there's gonna be red raw chafing in the morning, but for now, you're invincible, and the little low self esteem marble is long forgotten. Things are going great, you're holding court, getting laughs from your little stories and jokes, and everyone seems to be having a great time, but then one of your mates sets off on a rambling story that has everyone rapt. Soon, heads are thrown back and big hearty laughs are rolling out of everyone. Your mate has a big grin on his face, the smug bastard. Those laughs were supposed to be yours, your jokes were obviously much cleverer than his, the idiot. The stupid IDIOT. You stand up suddenly, trying to wrestle the attention back to you. "MY ROUND, GUYS, MY ROUND!" you say, and gesture for Mr Funny Man to come and help you with the drinks. He follows you to the bar, and as he stands beside you, you can't help yourself. You say "that story was so funny, mate. You're a natural storyteller, you know? So funny." "Oh, ha ha," he says, "thanks mate, yeah." "Mine weren't doing quite as well, eh?" You fake a little chuckle, and look at him expectantly. "Sorry, what?" "I said, uh, my stories weren't as good as yours really though... were they?" Flashing a smile. "I guess not, ha ha", he replies. Big smile in return. [[Kick his arse to kingdom come]] [[Accept defeat]]

Good luck with that, mate. That's all I can say. On you go. Let's see it. [after 5 seconds] Tapping my fingers over here. [after 10 seconds] Looking good. Looking real good for you. [after 15 seconds] I think it'll take some time to develop the humility necessary to accept help. I'll just wait. [after 23 seconds] I'm bored. [[Jesus Christ. Fine.]]

You can but try. What's your first move? Have you given it even a minute's thought before now? [[Of course!]] [[...of course.]]

That's better. Unfortunately, in this universe, I am your god and free will doesn't exist. Sucks for you, but excellent for me. Here's the thing though, here's the thing. Doing what I say, like getting up because I nagged you to do it, is going to pop that little orb of neggy self esteem back into your brain. Ain't that just the nature of life. On the bright side, I've seen where the untaken path goes. It's not pretty, I can tell you that much. [[Get up]] [[Still no]]

Astral projection. Sure. Go on then, launch yourself out of your body. A ghostlike representation of yourself rises up out of you and you look down on yourself, lying in your bed. How frail you look, all tucked up in your big bed, little legs under the covers. Scrawny arm raised up, hand in your brain butter. By the way, have you thought about what might happen when you take your hand back out of your brain? Of course not. You're so open to new experiences that you didn't consider where this might go. Best enjoy it while you can. Float on out of the window if you like. [[Go on, then.]] [[Think about the hand-in-brain deal->Panic.]]

You feel a sense of calm fall upon you. Nothing really bothers you now. You cannot conceive of a reality where something might hurt you or something bad will happen. A belief that you can do whatever the hell you like enters your head, and it's deliciously seductive. There's one thing you've always wanted to try. One thing that would make your life immeasurably better. Cold blooded murder. What do you think? Literally nothing can harm you; it doesn't make any sense that you would get caught. Mull it over. Picture the person you hate the most getting their head stoved in with a heavy object. Nice, innit. Nice feeling. [[I'LL GODDAMN DO IT]] [[I'd maybe rather go skydiving or something to be honest, I'm a bit squeamish.]]

You wonder whether taking your hand out of your brain might have a bad effect on your ability to be alive. You think perhaps even dipping your hand in there was a bad idea. The beginnings of a really good panic bubbles up inside your chest. Perhaps you'll have a full panic attack. Perhaps a heart attack. You could wait and see what happens to you, or you could whip your hand out of there quick as a flash, before your brain notices. [[Whip your hand out]] [[Let the panic take you]]

Let's see how far this baby will go. You float your weird astral body towards the window and out over the street. I've never astral projected myself, but you should probably be careful not to go too far. Who knows how long the string is. Or perhaps it's infinite. This is your deal. You go ahead. You float on down the street, and you think about where you fancy going. [[Let's see how far we can go.]] [[Let's spy on someone nearby.]] [[Let's go back, I'm scared.]]

I knew you were a pervert. Who are you going to spy on? [[A Friend]] [[A Stranger]]

Are you joking? Are you seriously thinking "wow, astral projection, I don't want *that*"? This isn't even real, and you're still worried about doing the wrong thing, or getting your soul permanently detached from your body or whatever? Pathetic! You'd look out the window and see a unicorn and you'd draw the curtains, wouldn't you? You'd be like: "No thank you, I wouldn't like to take a trip to eternal paradise, I like it in fucking... Portsmouth or whatever." You'd just wake up again in your bed knowing that these things exist and choosing to go back to your normal life? [[Yes, let me snooze, I'm tired and my name is Colin or Nigel or something.->Choose Your Character]] [[When you put it *that* way...->Let's see how far we can go.]]

You spookily fly your astral self directly down. Interesting choice. Some people might have taken the opportunity to go to the far side of the world, or up into space to look down on the earth, or even the far reaches of the universe. Not you though. You chose down. For a long time, there's just darkness as you tunnel down through layers and layers of rock, face first like some kind of transparent worm. You could have gone feet first like you're standing in a lift, but no, you like to get a really close up look at the substrate. Eventually you're going to reach the core, but speed it up a bit eh, this is a pretty boring journey if I'm honest. Journey to the Centre of the Earth kind of oversold it, don't you think? [[Take your time...]] [[Hit da gas]]

God, you're the worst, aren't you? You drift down the street, pulled by an invisible string. You round the corner and follow the main road for a few miles. Here you are at your best friend's house. Go take a look through the window, you little creep. Floating to the upstairs window and sticking your ghostly head through the glass, you can see your friend is in the bedroom with his back turned towards you. He's kneeling down, feeling for something under the bed. He pulls out a shoe box, stands up, and puts it on the chest of drawers under the window. Your astral head hovers inches above it, affording you a perfect view. Your friend flips the lid off the box with a flourish, and inside are many small cylindrical parcels, each wrapped in what looks like greaseproof paper. Each paper package is marked with a date. He opens the top drawer, roots around for a moment, and produces an empty tube that used to contain Smarties. He pops off the lid, places the open tube carefully next to the shoe box, and starts to undo his belt. You consider for a moment whether you want to see what happens next, but you feel compelled to keep watching. Your friend drops his trousers and picks up the tube. Projecting yourself further through the window, you see him clearly nestle the tube between the cheeks of his arse, clenching tight.

You float around for a while, up streets you've never been to in your conscious life and out into the countryside. You happen across a farmhouse and decide to take a little peek inside. Passing through the aged stone of the farmhouse, you find yourself in a warm, cosy kitchen. A cat is curled up by a hot stove, and there's a delicious smell coming from inside the oven. His back to you, a man busies himself at the sink, washing something. [[What's he up to?]]

OK. Let's just lie here forever, shall we? Settle back, this is going to take some time. Hours pass. Days. Weeks. Finally you succumb to hunger. The bed is stinking and damp. The smell of your gradually rotting meat attracts flies that multiply exponentially with the feast you've provided. The maggots start to chew away, breaking you down. Eventually there's nothing left of you but a stained mattress, and a million fly children. That's nice that you did that for them. You're like a god. You're nothing but the billions of bacteria you harboured while you were alive. Eventually there's nothing left of them as well. From stardust you were, to stardust you return. [[Get up, finally]] [[I'm a Fly God]]

Open your eyes. Luckily for you, you were wrong about basically everything, and there is, in fact, an afterlife. Or rather, your life. Your life, again. You learned absolutely nothing from your previous time on earth, so your punishment is to do it again, in the same body, with the same mind. Lucky, lucky star. Do you want to do things differently this time? You won't remember all the mistakes you made, but I will. I'll help you make them all again, but slightly worse. Or better. I don't know how it works. [[Look in the mirror]] [[Just lie here.]]

You get out of bed. You've no idea that you were there for so long, you feel like a whole new person. Refreshed. Go look in the mirror. There we go, that's you now. You were reborn and delivered to the very moment you decided you were going to just laze about until you died. Only this time, there's something different about you. What is it? [[Third Nostril]] [[Anus on forehead]]

I'm so sick of you, to be honest. I'm here floating in your consciousness as much as you are, and I just have to sit here waiting for you to die over and over? Selfish. Get up. <<timed 1s>> Get up get up get up <</timed>> <<timed 2s>> GET UP <</timed>> <<timed 3s>> GET UP <</timed>> <<timed 4s>> GET UP <</timed>> <<timed 5s>> GET UP <</timed>> <<timed 8s>> Listen, I'll not do the rebirth thing again, alright? It's a one shot thing, that. I can't be reusing stuff, you'll get bored. Or I'll put you in the infinite loop of rebirth and *you'll* be bored. <</timed>> <<timed 12s>> [[Rebirth]] [[OK, OK. Get up->Get ready and leave for work]] <</timed>>

I knew you'd pick that, but I think it's far too obvious a choice. Perhaps I put that in to force you down a certain path where the writing is better, or the ideas are more interesting. I mean, they're not, but they could have been. You sure you want the forehead anus? Think it through. Think about kneeling in front of the toilet when you're throwing up, and how that makes you want to throw up more. Then picture, instead of throwing up, where your eyes are a reasonable distance from the action, to a shit coming out of your forehead and down in front of your face. Front row view. That's what you chose. That's how you're living your second life. Do you think this will further your path to enlightenment and the meaning of life, all that? Suffering like Jesus with your foreanus? I'm not so sure, but I suppose we'll find out. Here, imagine you're going in for your first kiss, the one you've been waiting for. They've managed to look past the anus to see you for who you are. The build up, the gaze, hands finding each other, moving in close, closing your eyes. Then a little fart, right into their face. Maybe a big old squeak. Or long. Spattery. There's absolutely no way you're coming back from that. You could put a little cover on it maybe. Pretend you've had an injury. You seen those little tags they make that you hang on a dog's tail to cover its bumhole up when you're in polite company? One of those. You could be a Hat Guy. The way I see it, that's one choice for you, and the other is to become a story of triumph against adversity on a rubbernecker TV documentary. [[Rubberneckers welcome]] [[Try to live a normal life]]

Here you go, here's what you wanted. At least I'll give you a choice between forms. What those forms are, you'll never know. Have fun. I hope you're happy with eternal punishment. [[Rebirth here]] [[Rebirth there]]

Mornin' sunshine. You have been reborn, as requested. I hope you enjoy being a tapeworm living in the gut of a man called Derek. He's been taking massive doses of black market dog wormer for a week or so, and it's about to work on you *and* him. The last thing you remember is poking your little tapeworm noggin out of his arse as you both perish. You could have just got out of bed, but here we are. [[Rebirth there]]

Good morning. Welcome back. Pick your poison: [[Heaven]] [[Hell]]

Yeah, that's what I thought. Go on, tell us your plan.

Well, you cracked the code. You say you're going to do things, and then you do them. Most people you come in contact with can't handle your level of self esteem and assume that you're exactly where you're supposed to be. You saunter into auditions, and your supreme confidence won't accept failure. Of course you are universally rejected, but you choose not to pay attention to unimportant details like that. Elbows out, feet in doors, eventually, somehow, in spite of everything about you, you are cast in your first movie role. You're going to be working alongside none other than Ripp Bergerford. The Big Berger himself. Bergerlugs. It's like a dream come true. *You deserve this.* If you're being honest (and of course, your opinions are flawless and must be heard), Bergerford is distinctly lacking in talent. He's no you, after all. [[Tell him]] [[Outshine him]]

You feel a slight popping sensation just behind your right eye. Ah, that'll be a low self esteem orb being born. You wanted to try to live a normal live with an anus on your forehead, that's going to take your ego down a notch for certain. What's the plan then? Go to work as normal? Maybe you should take the day off and do something a bit more relaxing. You've had a very trying morning, after all. Call it a mental health day. [[Bite the bullet, go to work.]] [[Day off, please]]

He's such a ham that you start calling him The HamBerger to his face. He always smiles at that, thinking it's a surface level pun you made about hamburgers because you're an adorable idiot who thinks you're witty. Annoyed, you explain it to him, convinced he'll take your criticism on board. Bergerford, enraged, gets you in a headlock and starts biting. [[Say: "This will be great for my career!"]] [[Fight]]

It's your first day on set, and you're doing a run-through of your first scene with Bergerford. He limbers up like a prize fighter, grunting and huffing, bouncing on his toes and giving it one-two jabs like a hotshot. Who the hell does he think he is? He's no you, that's for sure. Go on, show him who's boss. The director calls action and you spring into action. All the emotions you know (sadness, joy and anger) spill out of you. Tears fall from your eyes, you clutch your chest, tear off your shirt, fall to your knees. Hysterical laughter follows a dramatic scream, and then you snap into earnest, wide-eyed innocence. You're absolutely killing it, and you keep escalating. Before long you're on your hands and knees, panting, face red, and wet with tears. You might have pissed yourself ever so slightly during the scream. (By the way, that doesn't really happen to anyone else when they scream, that might be something to talk to your doctor about.) Finally, you look up to meet eyes with Bergerford in a display of theatrical domination, but he's leaning against a wall scrolling through his phone, occasionally laughing at whatever he's watching. You do, however, meet eyes with the director, who doesn't speak for a moment. "Okay..." he finally says, "the line is 'Good afternoon sir, can I take your jacket?'. From the top please, just the line." A pause, and some hushed discussion. "Keep the scream, actually," he adds.

You whip your hand out of your brain pan, and mushed up brain matter is flicked from your fingers and slaps wetly against the wallpaper. You start incoherently bellowing, your eyes rolled upwards, slackjawed. "BEHHHHHHHHH," you yell, as you totter about the room. "AAAUUUHHHHHHH," as you stagger into a chest of drawers. Hands out in front of you, zombie style, you feel your way to the wet mush on the wall and start frantically scooping it up. Most of it does make it back into your skull, but a not-insignificant amount coats your face like you've been spread with paté, and a little bit even made it down your throat. Still, chucking it back in seems to have done the trick. You're back in the room. Snapping your skull closed, you fall to your hands and knees and pant like a dog. No more brain-fishing. Lesson learned, you think. You throw up a colourful medley of brain and bile, and you sit back against the wall, breathing heavily. If I were you, I'd go and get ready, because you're definitely late for work. [[Time to get to work]]

Strap in. Here it comes. Your heart starts pounding in your ears, and your chest tightens up, your breathing shallow, and fast. Panting away like a dog. Eyes wide. Not daring to move but knowing that your shaking is getting worse, stirring up your brains even more. What an idiot you were to pop your skull open. Stupid stupid stupid. This is so typical of you. Now you're going to asphyxiate because someone merely suggested the possibility of shoving your hand inside your brain and you just ran with it. This'll pass, as long as you stop thinking about it. Think about something nice instead. [[Think about a meadow]] [[Think about a tropical beach]]

OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, YOU'RE GOING TO TAKE YOUR HAND OUT OF YOUR BRAIN AND D- *a warm breeze drifts across your face, bringing with it the honey scent of clover flowers and the lazy buzz of fat bumblebees. The grass is soft beneath you and you feel-* THIS IS IT, YOU'VE DONE IT THIS TIME, THIS IS THE BIG ONE, THE END OF ALL THINGS, YOU'VE TOTALLY FUCKED IT, Y- *- it gently caress your skin as you lie down and let your body-* YOUR HAND IS INSIDE YOUR BRAIN. YOUR GODDAMN HAND IS INSIDE YOUR BRAIN, AND YOUR BRAIN IS SCRAMBLED LIKE A BIG FUCKING EGG.

Your laughter subsides somewhat when you realise Bergerford isn't planning on stopping any time soon. Your skull is entirely exposed to the elements. You think about how they're going to fix you up, assuming you manage to survive this. It's a pretty big area to cover with a skin graft. What if they stretch a load of pig skin over your dome, and you're left with those weird pig bristles for hair instead of just being bald? What if they leave a nipple up there? You'd be goddamn SPECTACULAR, wouldn't you? Time to finish this and get yourself a flight to the finest and weirdest cosmetic surgeons in the business. You start stuggling, trying to get purchase on the floor to break free of Bergerford's iron grip, kicking your legs and trying to squeeze your head out from his arm. Luckily you're very slippery with blood now, and gradually you work your head loose. Slipping and sliding at first, you manage to stand up and push Bergerford away from you. Bergerford seems to snap out of a trancelike state, and sees you with fresh eyes. Fresh, wide open eyes. Mouth gaping. Your skull's popped itself open again, and your mess of brain is on show. That's very embarrassing, isn't it? Like being caught naked out in public. Awful for Bergerford to see of course, but so much worse for you. "Wh... how... what th..." Bergerford stammers. He's off balance, you could strike. An easy win. Or, you could... [[Ask him if he wants a feel]] [[No, strike him down]]

Bergerford is starting to calm down somewhat, realising his teeth are currently scraping bone. No one's really let him go this far before, and he's a little bit worried that they won't let him do a fifth installment of the Maximum Humiliation franchise. He stops biting and casts his eyes silently downwards to meet yours. Your hair and scalp are stuck between his bright white teeth. He lets you drop and you fall to your hands and knees, still giggling and trying to catch your breath. You hear a knock, and look up to see a harried looking runner at the window. Bergerford turns and smiles, gesturing "two minutes" with his fingers. The runner gives a thumbs up and leaves.

"This will be great for my career!" Ripp Bergerford is ripping chunks out of your hair and scalp like an angry bear while you grin away thinking about the PR opportunities that'll follow. Bergerford's career is, you assume, in the shitter. The thought starts you off laughing. Big hearty laughs start rolling out of you. Bergerford is roaring big gutteral animal roars. You're crying with laughter, blood and tears rolling down your cheeks. He's peeling you like a boiled egg. You might want to stop him. [[Fight]] [[Wait, let's see where this goes...]]

"I'm a goddamn genius, and I am unleashed," you say out loud to the room. "I will create the ultimate... horse," you continue, eyes wide. "Four arms, not legs, no clippety clop, just slippety slap of palm on tarmac." The flip switch is binary, there's not really room for subtlety. You're entirely out of control, every neuron you have firing at once. Let's see what you're capable of. Your eyes are wild and panicky, you've no idea what you're saying. The words are just coming. "Neuralink with the horse, feel the horse's emotions, cling to the underbelly of the horse, naked and afraid." You snap your skull closed with a theatrical flourish and leap out of bed. Flinging drawers and cupboards open, you ferret around for anything paper and anything that'll make a mark. Grabbing a chinese takeaway menu and a tiny bookies pen, you scrawl your intricate plans for the horse neuralink, ripping holes in the paper as you go. "My GOD you're right, you're right of course!" You scrawl more lines and arrows and weird symbols. "Horse arms, horse mind, harms and hind, intrinsically linked. Acquire horse. Acquire arms. It's all so clear to me now. Cables. Cables and drivers. USB powered psychological landscape projected into the arms and hands of the animal." Staggering out of your front door, pyjamas spattered with pink matter and cerebral fluid, you start running for the nearest farm. One of them must have a horse of some description, and maybe some of those horses already have arms. Save you a job. Very smart. Farmers will also provide arms. It's in the name. Forearmed is forewarned. Suits o' Farmer. It takes a few hours, but eventually you find a field with three shaggy looking horses standing around, regarding you like they might look at a tree. "Come here my beautiful beasts, entangle your minds with a new and emergent psychological state unknown to science. Canter, canter on your slippy slappy handfeet!" You approach a horse with a determined stride, a look of wonderment and awe on your face, arms open wide to embrace your combined future. Rearing up before you, the animal brings both front hooves neatly down on your skull. You drop like a stone, and the animal gives you 20 to 30 more good stamps until he's sure you're absolutely done with your nonsense. [[Time passes...->Get up, finally]]

You leap out of bed, snapping your skull closed, and immediately stride out and buy yourself the perfect instrument to match your new self confident aura. You pick an Alpen Horn. Anyone who didn't know you'd crushed all the low self esteem out of your brain would think you were compensating for something. You wouldn't think that though, you're not capable of anything but perfection. You haul the gigantic horn back to your house, and set it up in the living room. A giant like you doesn't need practice, this is easy for you. Give it a honk. BLAAAARRRRPPPPPP The windows rattle, you feel light headed, and you accidentally let out a little stinky squeaker. You're ready, from your first parp, for superstardom. [[Record the greatest album the universe has ever known]] [[Create the loudest alpen honk ever heard by man]]

The flies multiply and multiply, and you've become a legend in fly oral history. They make tiny little statues of you out of soil and various scraps of faeces. They're not known for their artistry so the statues aren't much to look at, but there's definitely a likeness. Remarkable, really, for a creature with no actual brain. That's how powerful you were in fly history. You continue to exist as a theory, a story, a tale to get little maggot children to behave. Eat your leaf mould or The Big Food Sack won't bring you any rotten meat for christmas. If you try very hard, you can influence flykind through a few "enlightened" individuals. Here's one of them now. The Chosen One. Your prophet. Currently, he is trapped between two panes of double glazing. Enter his tiny consciousness, and spread the gospel. [[...No, no thank you.->Choose Your Character]] [[The Mind Of The Fly]]

You force your free floating consciousness into the tiny limited one of your prophet. He twitches, and then calm comes over him. He starts speaking your words with his tiny fly voice. Flies speak English, but the pitch, tone and content of what they say is too annoying for the human brain, so we block their particular frequency out of the necessity of sanity. You whisper to the fly, and he rubs his tiny front feet together with glee. "Flykind," the annoying little stupid fucking voice says, "gather ye to the window! I've good news! The Rotted Sack speaks through me! Your God, the Putrid Stench Puddle, The Drippy Carcass, he is here!" The other flies start to crowd around the window. "Brothers, what if I told you we could have an endless supply of the most perfectly decomposed meats flies have ever tasted? Goo on demand, easily accessible, only for us. Too long have we suff-" The other flies have disappeared. The double glazing slides open behind The Prophet, and as the swatter turns him into a pancake of iridescent chunks and yellow liquid, your final thought is simply: "I was the greatest fly god the universe has ever seen." [[Regenerate->Choose Your Character]]

Where do you actually work? What do you do? You never mentioned. [[Chef]] [[Fighter]]

It's so delicious to go back to sleep as soon as you wake up, that's where the good dreams live. The real involved shit. Let's see what your mind cooks up for you. Your dream self gains consciousness and you look around you. You're absolutely desperate to shit so you go into the dream public toilets. You already know what kind of thing is going to happen, but you're powerless to stop it. [[Shit the bed and move on to dream pastures new]] [[Take your medicine]]

"Hey... you've never wondered what sticking your hand in someone's brain feels like? Not even for a second?" Bergerford blinks. He doesn't say anything for a moment and then he approaches. "Go on. Have a little dip. A little dippette. A dippenstein." He reaches his hand out tentatively, like he's trying to pet a frightened kitten. An eerie grin spreads across his face, and in one swift move, he plunges his fist right into your skull. He pushes his fingers out through your eyes and mouth, like an inverted bowling ball. With a caveman grunt of exertion, he spins you round his head like an olympic hammer thrower and straight out of the window. You hit the ground with a wet slap, and that's the end of your glorious career. The final thing you see as you look up at the broken window you flew though is Bergerford, thoughtfully sucking his fingers. [[Time passes...->Get up, finally]]

You bring your knee swiftly up to meet Bergerford's balls and with that, his head flies forward directly into your open brainpan. Bergerford inhales deeply, ready to release a scream of pain, but instead, all of that buttery brain is hoovered up through his nose and mouth. In panic, he gnashes his teeth through your spinal cord and slumps back, coughing and spitting bits of brain all over the room while you fall to your knees and list sideways on to the floor. With the last neurons firing their final scraps of electricity, you have a vague awareness of Bergerford getting out his phone and calling his agent. [[Time passes...->Get up, finally]]

You push the door open and go into the toilet. There are rows of stalls along the walls, and another row in the centre of the room. There must be a good forty cubicles in here, it's truly monumental, as far as public toilets go. You take a look down the rows of cubicles, and every one of them has a transparent shower curtain covering each entrance. The curtains are barely lower than chin height once you're sitting on the toilet, but needs must, you're absolutely bursting. As you look down into the bowl, you see the largest turd you've ever witnessed. The monster is bigger than the u-bend itself, and you marvel at it for a while before going to the next stall. This one is similarly full. Again and again, you check a cubicle and find a Creature of the Deep looking back up at you. People are starting to pile into the room, checking themselves in the mirror, chatting amongst themselves, doing their hair. None of them seem to care about the smell, nor are any of them there to use the toilets. But you are. Yep, you're going to have to go for it. You step into a cubicle at random and take a deep breath. You immediately regret the deep breath and start retching. Getting yourself under control, you gingerly extend a hand towards the bowl. You're going to have to clear it to use it, and time's wasting. Eyes on your back, now. Some of the chatter stops. In you go, two handing that thing like a prize carp from a lilypond. It's about the size of a chihuahua and growing before your eyes. It's still warm, and to your horror you begin squashing it in your hands, rubbing it in. Everyone's looking now. They all know it was you who left a giant crap in every bowl, and they hate you for it. Cleaning your hands by rubbing them down your front and over your thighs, you pull down your pants in front of the horrified onlookers and sit down. The plastic curtain only covers your eyes, and you can see everyone staring as if you're observing through a fish tank. [[Wake up with a start.]]

You find yourself in a large house, not a stately home, but it's impressive never the less. The kind of place the local lord would live in after slaughtering a couple of foxes or a peasant or whatever. It's quite empty really, sparse furniture, white walls, a few paintings. Bare wooden floors with threadbare rugs here and there. Lived in, but barely. You start having a little wander about, opening the big wooden doors with their pewter doorknobs and peering into endless bedrooms and the occasional cold sterile bathroom. One bedroom has a large window at one end, and you wander in for a look out at the grounds. Once inside, you feel a chill. In your bones you feel a presence in the room with you. Furthermore, you sense its desire to unzip you like a suitcase and use your liver as a hat. The door slams behind you, and all you can do is hide. There are a couple of options that dream-you thinks are suitable: [[Lie down next to the rug]] [[Crouch behind a child's wooden chair]] [[Stand inside a wooden chest, everything visible from the knees up.]]

You find yourself standing outside the public aquarium you used to visit as a kid, but it's different somehow. The main entrance is bright and shiny as you remember it, but beyond the ticket desk you can see that all the tanks are absolutely filthy, algae coating the inside of the glass, water too murky to see what lives in them. You pay your money anyway, because apparently it's the kind of thing you like to see, and you go through the turnstile. Approaching the first tank, you're hit with a smell, a mix of damp, rotting vegetation and the harbour at low tide. Something inside looms up out of the dark, white marble eyes squeaking against the glass, and disappears back into the murk.

The man shakes water from his hands, dries them off on an ancient looking tea towel, and walks over to a large wardrobe-looking cupboard in the corner of the kitchen. He opens the door to reveal a plastic folding chair, the sort of thing you'd see in a village hall or at a school concert. The man proceeds to take off his clothes and neatly fold them into a pile on the floor before climbing into the cupboard in nothing but his socks, and taking a seat on the plastic chair. You wince slightly as he lowers his old man bollocks down on to the cold, hard seat. Once settled, he crosses one leg over the other, and pulls the cupboard door shut. You phase through the door and position yourself inside the cupboard with the man, curious to see where this is going. He sits quietly for a moment, takes a deep breath through his nose, and then clears his throat. In a small, quavering voice, he starts to speak. "Alright, partner... Keep on rollin', baby... You know what time it is." The man uncrosses his legs and sits up a little straighter in the gloom of the cupboard. In the manner and timbre of a choir boy, he begins to sing. "Move in, now move out, hands up, now hands down, back up, back up, tell me whatcha gonna do now" He closes his eyes. "Keep rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin'", he sings, pronouncing the words very precisely and carefully in a falsetto voice. "Reep kolling-" His eyes pop open. "For FUCK'S SAKE," he shouts, and he hammers his fist against the side of the cupboard. "For fuck's SAKE. For FUCK'S SAKE. For fuck's sake." He pushes the cupboard door open and steps out, picking up his clothes and putting them back on. The man walks over, gives the cat a stroke, then goes into an adjoining room. You hear him slump into a chair and the theme tune from This Morning plays. [[Shall we move on? Let's move on.]]

Opening a top drawer and pulling out a notebook, you set to work writing the perfect lyrics for your Alpenhorn Album. Pen poised above the page, you stare into the middle distance, eyes glazed, and in your mind's eye you see a man. A glorious man. A man resplendent in lederhosen studded with crystals. sun glinting off each one to create a dazzlingly beautiful display. His name? You hesistate, brow furrowed, and then, from your pen springs forth pure poetry: Hans Lederhosen was a leathery golden man Gold were his teeth and leather were his hands His alpenhorn was filled to the brim with tiny golden clams Hans Lederhosen and his golden clammy honking parping hands. You smile, and seat yourself at your alpenhorn. Your lack of recording equipment doesn't worry you. You simply open your phone camera, start recording a video, and place the phone on the floor by your feet. Here we go. A genius at work, unfettered by self-doubt. Parp! "Hans Leeeeederhosen was a leathery golden man..." Your singing voice is unbelievably beautiful, and tears form in your eyes. "Gold were his teeth..." You sob in earnest. "and.. and... leather were..." You are now fully crying. "his haaaAAAaaands", you wail. Unfortunately, for anyone in earshot, your singing voice is *not* unbelievably beautiful. It is, admittedly, unbelievable, but not in the way you'd hope. You soldier on through the rest of the song, giving a solitary blast on your alpenhorn after each line.

Brace yourself. You empty all the air out of your lungs and begin to refill them to capacity. You're sucking in air like your body is an empty vacuum. An entire room's worth of stale air, dust and all, steadily filling you up. Finally you clamp your mouth shut and approach the horn. Lips to mouthpiece, legs planted like two mighty twigs in the earth, hands clasped around the neck of the horn, you prepare for the performance of a lifetime. You blow, lips vibrating, cheeks like a hamster, knees shaking. The hardest blast of hot dusty breath you can muster leaves you and from the bell of the horn, a mighty parp blows. The glass from the windows and the drums from your ears are instantaneously shattered. Blood spatters the walls to your left and right and the room goes silent, but the parp continues. Distant dogs howl, people clap their hands to their ears and birds fall from the sky. You don't hear it of course, but emergency signals start going off on people's phones all over town. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER, they say. People start panicking and climbing under tables and into cupboards. Some run into the street, screaming and crying, some mowed down by cars as neighbours desperately try to leave town. You put your hands on your hips and survey the scene. The blood on the walls is a little bit worrying. That'll be difficult to get off the emulsion. You make a mental note to buy some sponges and a bottle of sugar soap. You'll have to get some cardboard to cover the window as well, and probably get the glazier out tomorrow. All in all though, a satisfying start to your music career. You don't yet realise your hearing is entirely gone, but Beethoven managed pretty well, didn't he? You'll be fine. You busy yourself cleaning up after the Parp of Parps, oblivious to the scenes unfolding outside in the street. The army are being dispatched at that very moment, convinced one of the foreign adversaries du jour have finally pushed The Button. Pretty good, to be honest. You really did have it in you.

You thrash your legs about and start speeding up. You hit 50, 60, 70mph, faster and faster through the earth. 300, 400, 500mph. If you weren't a ghostly wisp of a person you'd have been crushed into dust a long time ago, and if you were an uncrushable heatproof superman, you'd be floating weightlessly around down there. Eventually you hit the brakes and have a look around, but as there's no light down there, you see nothing. You have no corporeal form so you feel nothing either. There's no air, you hear nothing. To be honest, it was a bit of a waste of time. Good idea to try this, I suppose. Underwhelming, but worth a go. I tell you what though, no one's going to be bothering you down here. You could just sit for as long as you like, knowing no one will ask anything of you. It's the ultimate sensory deprivation tank. Your body is still upstairs in bed, hand in your brain, slackjawed, and hopefully no one's coming to check on you. Christ knows what would happen then. Are you bored of the centre of the earth yet? [[I've seen enough.]] [[Deprive my senses until they squeak]]

Well thank god for that, you didn't shit yourself in your sleep. Can you imagine? Ugh.

You release your bowels fully and without a care in the world. You're comforted by the warm spread and a beatific smile spreads across your face as you settle into a different dream, one that is mercifully free of horrible toilet situations. Have a look around, where did you end up? [[Manor house]] [[Public aquarium]]

The red mist falls and you grab your empty pint glass from the bar. raise your arm as high as it can go and bring the glass down on your friend's head. Embarrassingly, it bounces straight off and remains entirely intact, leaving just a dull bonk sound in its wake. The rebound causes you to punch yourself directly in the teeth. A noise like popcorn popping rings in your ears as several dozen low self esteem orbs are reborn. Time to salvage this. You know what to do. Dig deep. "I guess, uhhhh... I guess that's what you call... I... I suppose you'd call that a t-" More popcorn sounds. "Well that was, uh, that was, that was... it was.. a smashing pint. Ha ha." The next thing you see is an extreme close up of your friend's fist, flying through the silent air. [[Rebirth there]] [[Rebirth here]]

Without pause, you turn around, walk out of the door and directly into the path of an oncoming bus. Everyone calmly watches you fly serenely through the air and come to land on the pavement roughly fifty feet along the road, dead. The onlookers observe your lifeless corpse for a moment, then continue with their day. Within a week, your friend uses this as an anecdote to enthrall a new group of people in the very same pub.

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First of all, what's your job? [[Office lackey]] [[Murderer]]

You heave a sigh and stagger to your wardrobe. You pick out your favourite Care Bears sweatshirt, a little threadbare these days, and a pair of mustard coloured corduroys. On with your thick lensed aviator glasses and you're pretty much ready to go. Time to get to work. Mondays, am I right? [[Pick a weapon]] [[Pick a victim]]

You hear the twang of an elastic band snapping and you're instantly dragged back up through the layers of the earth at insane speeds until you end up back inside your own body. I suppose it was worth trying, just to say you've done it. Kind of crap though, eh? Bad choice, yes?

Right, let's put a little plan in place. Snap that skull closed and we'll get going. Opening up your bedside drawer, you take out your little black book. A list of everyone who's ever wronged you. It goes on for pages and pages, you angry little gerbil. Leafing through the book, you pass hundreds of names. People who cut you off in traffic, steering with your knees while you wrote down their number plates. The assistant in B&Q who assumed you didn't know what wall fixings you needed like you're some sort of idiot. The receptionists at the doctors who CLEARLY smirked when you told them about your arse troubles.

First of all, what's your job? [[Office worker]] [[Murderer for Hire]]

What a choice, what an imagination. Your commute to the office goes more smoothly than usual. People make way for you like you're royalty. They double-take and practically leap away, staring in awe as you pass. Of course, you are covered in gore, and your limbs aren't really coordinated so I suppose the effect is a bit unsettling, but it's all working out nicely for you. No one sits next to you on the train, and the conductor doesn't make eye contact. He doesn't even check your ticket. He's seen some shit on this train, and you're simply too much for his pay grade. The train pulls to a stop in the city, and you stumble out and off towards your office building. Punching in the code on the door lock, little scraps of gore mark your path. 0451 clearly marked by meaty brain grease. In you go, let's see what you're doing today for your boring job. Before you manage to sit down, your manager calls you over into a side office. His face is a bit pale. Probably a bit of flu going about or something. "Come in," he says, no pleasantries, grim faced. "Security flagged you on CCTV, what's going on? You're covered in... some sort of <em>matter</em>. You swipe a finger over your face and examine it. Ah right, yeah. This is going to take some explaining. "Uh, yeah, sorry, I haven't had a chance to get cleaned up yet but, erm..." Sweat starts to form on your brow while you scrabble about for a feasible excuse. "A car hit a pigeon when it was driving past, and the pigeon exploded right over my face, so uh... that's... that's what the stuff is." Your manager looks at you for a moment, and you see yourself through his eyes. Pink straggles of soft meat, blood, something that looks like jelly. Your haunted eyes peer out through the disgusting viscera. It would have to be a pigeon the size of a dog at least, with a never-before-seen biology. You're for it. "Of course, of course," he says, finally. "That makes perfect sense. Happened to me once. Bloody pigeons." He leans over and starts licking your face clean like a cat. It feels good. You feel the morning's traumatic events melting away. [[Let him work]] [[Get back to your own work]]

You heave a sigh and stagger to your wardrobe. You pick out your favourite Care Bears sweatshirt, a little threadbare these days, and a pair of mustard coloured corduroys. On with your thick lensed aviator glasses and you're pretty much ready to go. The brain paté smeared over your face is a nice touch, and you leave it where it is. Time to get to work. Mondays, am I right?

His tongue is rough like a cat's as well. He's really going to town, rasping away at your skin. He works methodically, starting from your chin and moving in horizontal stripes up your face. Somewhere around your nose, he starts giving it some real welly. Almost painfully enthusiastic. In one quick move, he shoves his tongue into your eye socket and pops your eyeball clean out. It dangles down against your cheek, and you get half an image of the grim nylon carpet. A muffled shout of triumph as your manager sucks a strength cube out of your skull and starts gnashing it up like a dog caught with a stolen ham. What you know, but he doesn't, is that those only work when you put them directly into your brain. The idiot doesn't even know the opening trick. He astral projects roughly six inches in front of himself, and you catch the microexpression of disappointment before he arranges his face into a grim smile. Later, he's going to use this power purely for looking in the fridge without opening it.

A moment of clarity. This morning you put your hand in your brain and experimented with altering your personality and consciousness. Then you lost your goddamn mind and ripped your hand out of there in the belief that if you did it fast enough you'd be ok. A vivid out-of-body image of you shovelling your meatslop back into your skull and smearing it over your face, making those weird moans as you did it. Kind of cringe, when you put it like that. And now here you are. You're being gently cleaned like a kitten by your manager. You both like it. <em>You both like it.</em> A shiver of revulsion forces you to push him away, and do a polite little cough. "Well... I better be getting back to work." You back away, out of the door. The eyes of your co-workers are on you. Mike from marketing approaches you. "Well well well, look who got the special lickylick treatment this week. I suppose you think you're a real hotshot now don't you? Just remember, that was <em>me</em> once. Every other week, that was <em>my</em> treat. One day it'll stop happening and then you'll know <em>true pain.</em> [[Protest that you didn't like it]] [[Pretend you know what the hell he's talking about]]